I’ve been fangirling over SZA in the last few weeks.
Her songs feel like sitting in your feelings without drowning in them.
Like crying in the shower but with good lighting. Very much like that.
Meanwhile, my mom’s been sneaking into my soft spots.
She opened a candy and shoved it into my mouth like I was five.
Rubbed her leftover body lotion onto my hands without asking.
Massaged my back while casually unpacking generational trauma.
She told me how her mom used to scold her for spending too much on clothes.
And I was like—me too! She did that too.
I wanted to say “now look at us,” but I’m not even sure what that means. Not yet.
We spent twelve full hours together at the hospital.
From 9 to 9, just to chase a piece of paper—a damn surat rujukan.
I could’ve talked to her more, looked at her more, asked more about her knees or her soul or her lunch cravings.
Instead, I doomscrolled. Took work calls. Tried to stay on top of things, like it was any other Tuesday.
But I’m glad I was there.
Because imagining her taking a Grab car alone, coming home that late,
after a whole day of shuffling between counters and clinics and fluorescent-light fatigue?
Na’ah. Not happening.
And somewhere between waiting room boredom and fluorescent burnout,
I actually paused.
For once, I asked myself how I was feeling—not just ticking another box off my list.
And surprisingly, that made everything more real.
More alive.
I remember so much more from that day
than all the other mindless, motion-blur errands I’ve been sprinting through.
Some days I feel like I’m just a checklist in motion.
But on days like that—on days like Friday—
I remember I’m someone’s daughter.
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